The Devil's Jest
by Aura Creed
Summary: The well of voices were home to many, including the Ink Demon himself. Only he was able to walk to and from their embrace intact and yet all he wanted was to let them consume him, but he couldn't; he was charged to bring all those who wandered back into the fold, back into the well. The darling demon whose only dream was to dance, once upon a time... Perhaps if he remembered...


A/N: This story is a Secret Santa gift for Just Monika from the Seeky Searchers discord. He wanted a Dancing Inky Bendy. Hope you like it Monika!

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The whispers greeted him as he stepped into the ink. Form merging, consciousness mingling before the moment vanished and he was pulling himself over the edge, face splashing forth from the muck as his lungs once again met air. All too quickly the voices faded and he slouched, sticking feet finally hobbling forward.

He hated being outside of the pools. Every step he took was met with the quiet of a room, the echo of the halls - the dripping of ink he was no longer merged with, taunting him. The further he moved away from his essence the further away the voices seemed, only echoes in the back of his mind. The beating of veins pulsing in his head, his scratchy breath scrabbling up through his teeth. He became more and more aware, and every second he had to remind himself of the voices, of the feeling of the crowd beckoning all around him in the inky puddles. Of the reassurance he'd receive, once he returned to it.

The ticking of a clock brought him farther and farther out of his distraction. He _hated_ scrabbling on land. The clock was bringing him back, bringing thought back into his head and he hissed, claws arching as he swiped at it, knocking it to the ground before crushing it underfoot.

He hated having to do these rounds, to drag those that had left his mind back into it. A few voices had gone missing over the last while. He was starting to think they'd never return, as they usually had - that they had become like the wanderers. Awake, aware, _alive_.

He _despised_ the void they left him with. He hated them for it. Hated them all for it. His grin vibrated, his breathing as scratchy as the twisting floorboards while vein like ink spread out over the walls. A gloved hand curled around the edge of the wall as he turned the bend, fingers tapping in cascade as he peaked around.

The demon was blind and yet he could see clearly - the ink flowing through the walls and splattered about by his progeny was calming as he proceeded forward. The dripping took his mind off the lack of voices - the absent of the comforting buzz in the back of his head. His consciousness spread out, influencing the ink as it garbled and twitched, settling only when the demon was no longer near enough to influence it.

The air was hissing through his teeth when there was an audible click. He paused. Static filled the room he had found himself in and his head turned, trying to see what had caused the noise. None of the machines ink had managed to reach it and he grunted, moving close to the sound as he felt around for the offending item.

Then the sound of a piano came from the device and he knew what it was. One of the studios radios, still active and playing. A trumpet soon met the piano, then a saxophone. The swing of a generation fluttered into the room like an old memory and he let it settle in his core as the feeling swept him off his feet.

 _Lights lit up in increasing order as his feet connected to the heel, his palms facing outward as the shine of his shoes glowed in the gleam. Pie cut eyes roamed the audience of shadows, silhouettes indistinguishable faces bare. They'd be real enough for the viewers but they were already as real as they needed to be for Bendy. They were still people to him, despite their lack of shape. Bow tie adjusted and grin spread wide his feet part and slid. Ball to heel, ball to heel, his feet clacked against polished boards as he made his way from side to side. His head tilted to Boris, who was standing with the band off to stage left. The wolf's deft fingers traced the instrument in hand as the band started to play and his pal gave the signature number._

A tingling sensation was returning to his arms, a clapping sound coming from his one foot as he rolled his shoulders. The ink that melded into the walls from his presence seemed to pull back and suddenly a breath shuddered through his chest as he twirled, both feet smacking the ground.

 _The sax chimed in when he started to really get into it, twirling and sliding across the floor as he added his rhythm not in imitation to the song but in accompaniment._

Ball to heel, lift the knee to flap then hop. Claps and smacks turned to clacks as shoes slid across rotten floorboards and overturned splintered wood. Gloved hands snapped to the beat and spread out, feet shuffling outward before being drawn in again. A knee twisted over the other as he spun.

 _He tapped and he tapped and out of the corner of his eye he caught one of the band members grinning widely, a foot tapping idly to the tune as their eyes caught the demons and winked. He winked back, snapping his hands in a point as he swung his legs out. His legs and feet were a flurry of motion -_

\- as he scuttled side to side, front and back, arms swinging as he kept his balance effortlessly. A tip of the hat in a mock bow, not yet done as he tossed it. _It hit a coat rack and made it spin, dangling just barely on the edge as it managed to slide onto it completely._ _He didn't even bat an eye_ \- he hit something with his elbow and knocked it over. Boxes, from the sound of it but even they were in tune as he went back to the rhythm _\- simple ball to heel shuffles and flaps, speeding up and slowing down as necessary -_ keeping to his own unique beat as he played percussion to the band.

A rising sensation practically bubbled out of his ink as he realized the song was ending and joining into the saxophone with his footed instruments he rapidly clacked, hands outstretched as his fingers shook out into jazz hands and then the song ended. The noise very briefly turned back to static before the radio clicked and went silent.

Ears ringing, he opened his eyes.

Across from him was a mirror, yellowed and grim, yet uncracked and clear. Two hooked horns met his gaze and the toothy grin he was sporting only turned into a frown as his eyes traveled. Pie cut ovals shrunk as clean and crisp lines once again started to melt and fold. A tail coat graced his torso - _a gift from Alice_ \- tailor fit for his off-model height. His bow was clean - _as white as a feather_ \- set straight for the first time in as long as he could remember. Gloved hands with two black dots - _not holes_ \- prodded at his chest, feeling ripples of clothing and a smooth underside that lead down to a stomach - _he had a stomach_. Even his gloves were starting to drip as he noticed the slacks, how his feet pointed in the same direction - _his leg wasn't disfigured and numb_. He could wiggle his toes and feel they were encased in soles - _weren't melted together_.

He lifted a foot, setting it down with a melodious clack and for that brief instant he was back in the daydream - _memory_ \- shoulders relaxing - _crowds erupting in applause_...

But then he could feel his sleeves melting, his skin crawling as he suddenly remembered something important was missing.

The voices. He could no longer hear the voices.

Ink fell off of him in sloughs, globbing up at his feet before pooling beneath him. It ran over his eyes and he could no longer see the mirror but that was alright, in fact that was great - _horrible_. He howled, fingers twitching as he launched forward and felt the shards embed into his hand as they shattered. A sneer slid across his features as his consciousness crawled out into the surrounding walls, pulling at the pipes as they groaned and burst. Ink started to trickle down from the ceiling like rain drops.

The remains of his melting coat - _the one Alice had given him_ \- dug into his gut until he no longer had one. What was once easy breathing was now harsh and haggard. _Boris had left at the end of the show before he could even say goodbye._

Then the trickle turned into a downpour as ink fell down on him like a waterfall. Finally he could feel the voices return as his arms outstretched to greet them _push them away_. He stepped forward and tripped but that was ok, everything was alright _not alright_. The mass of consciousness flowed around his own but they were reassuring _so loud_ and _make it stop_ he closed his eyes and let the ink flow uninhibited and suddenly _he could see her crying_ the otherworldly glow he'd sensed in the ink vanished, leaving swirls of warmth _cold_ and darkness behind.

 _It was_ _horrible_ calming. He could _n't_ feel sleep _death_ wash over him _but it was worse._

He felt the numbness creep through his whole being as he returned to sanctuary. He wouldn't need to do his rounds for awhile now, everything was alright.

After all, it'd be fixed eventually. It'd only been a few years - what was a few years more?

A golden glow hovered over the black sea. It flickered before floating downwards, being consumed by the waves. A tiny memory, prickling in the back of his mind, reminded him of a letter, dropped some time ago. He remembered it because it was new.

" _Thirty years? Is that a long time, Joey?"_

He never recalled an answer.


End file.
